


Oh, My Dear Sweet Songbird

by Bfly1225



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, reverse omens - Fandom
Genre: AU-ception, Corviel is a crime boss and Ziraphon is his songbird, Crime AU, Gore, Mafia AU, Other, Reader Discretion is Advised, Strong Language, genderfluid Ziraphon, gore tw, gun tw, knife tw, lots of tws guys, reverse au, they're unhinged guys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 19:44:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20765936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bfly1225/pseuds/Bfly1225
Summary: Corviel had a reputation. He was the most dangerous man in the city, according to some. The most powerful. The man with connections. The man with an arsenal of assets that could be called upon.  And he had been, for quite some time. He had half the city’s public influencers under his thumb, had more money than one might think, and the crime world could not move against him if it tried.Ziraphon is his Songbird, his beloved.AKACorviel is a crime boss and Ziraphon is his lover. From the outside, it looks like a damaged relationship, but to them. . . Romance has never been so alive.





	Oh, My Dear Sweet Songbird

Ziraphon stumbled through the door, wiping his fingers on his black vest, weary and swaying. 

“Dear? Are you home?” Corviel’s voice floated through the shop, and the sound of metal coming into contact with the table followed. 

“Yes.” Was the tired answer, falling from lips as if it had been an effort. Corviel walked out, wiping something black like ink on his slacks. 

“You worried me, my dear.” He sighed, walking to the shorter of the two, who smiled. 

“I’m sorry. I was busy.” Ziraphon rested his head on Corviel’s chest, and Corviel softly rested his hands at Ziraphon’s waist. 

“That’s okay. You just know how I worry.” 

“I do. But I’m okay, I promise,” Ziraphon looked up, resting his chin now on Corviel’s chest. Corviel smiled softly. 

“I was just cleaning the handgun.” Corviel leaned down to kiss Ziraphon’s forehead and lead him to the back room. 

“Mm, which one?” He asked, trailing after him. 

“The Ruger with the nice handle.” 

“Ohh. . . that one’s pretty.” 

“It reminds me of you.” Corviel purred. 

Ziraphon, in return, gave a small sound of romantic interest as opposed to an answer. Noticing this, Corviel placed a hand to Ziraphon’s lower back. 

“How about a shower, dear?” 

Ziraphon let something like a moan out at the prospect of hot water on his skin, leaning into the spidery hand on his back. 

“We need to get to the bathroom first,” Phrased like a joke, though somewhat a serious reminder. “I’m not carrying you this time.” 

“But, Corviel. . . I’m tiiiired.” 

“You’ve walked this far, a few more feet won’t kill you.” 

“Unless they do. What would you do if I dropped dead, love?” 

“Hide your body.” He replied, deadpan and distracted. 

“And. . .?”

“Collect the insurance.”

“. . . does this relationship mean nothing to you?”

“. . . no?” 

“No it doesn’t or no it does??”

“Yes?” 

“Goddamnit, Corviel, a single straight response-”

“You don’t like straight things, though?” 

“Insufferable.” Pouted Ziraphon. 

“Bratty.” Fired back Corviel. 

“. . . I love you.” Ziraphon rested into Corviel, smiling. 

“I love you too.” Corviel opened the door, and Ziraphon slipped into the door ahead of Corviel. The doorway was just a bit too narrow for two to go in at once, which had been a hell of a discovery to make, though the image of the two of them naked stuck in the bathroom door never ceased to amuse Ziraphon to his core. 

Ziraphon began peeling off layers, which had been stuck to his sides. He’d been a bit less careful than he would’ve liked on this particular night. Normally he could get away with these things- well, obviously get away with, but- normally he didn’t get nearly any blood on his clothes. He frowned as he unbuttoned his vest. Why on Earth did his hobby have to leave him so messy? It was troublesome to him. 

“You made a mess.” Corviel pointed out, somewhat dryly. 

“At least I’m not dripping this time. Be thankful.” Replied the murder gremlin airly. 

“I’m incredibly thankful, dear. I just prefer not having to wash the blood out of such pretty clothes that I buy you,” Corviel tutted, picking up the vest from where it had been discarded in the sink. 

“I bought that,” Ziraphon insisted, furrowing his brow. 

“Really? With whose money?” 

“. . . Well. . .” 

“Well?” 

“Well, yours, but I still bought it.” 

“I thought so.” Corviel took the vest fully out of the sink to begin running cold water, and Ziraphon pouted in full. 

“Why aren’t you paying attention to me??” 

“Dear, I really must clean this before the stain sets.” He pointed out, though he had half a mind to shut the sink off. He truly felt as if he, maybe, perhaps, doted on his love a little too much. . . 

“But my love,” He whined, grasping at Corviel’s shirt gently. 

“Oh, that’s cheating.” Corviel rolled his eyes. “You know I love that pet name.” 

“It’s not cheating if I want attention.” Ziraphon replied, with the air of one who just pulled out his trump card. 

Corviel, in response to this, sighed. “I really shouldn’t dote on you the way I do, my love.” He began wringing out the vest, rinsing it out. “I’ll make sure to be fast.” 

“Thank you, babe.” Ziraphon picked at his stiletto nails, black as the night and twice as deadly. “. . . I broke my favorite knife.” He mentioned, sullenly. 

“Oh,” Corviel frowned, “I’m sorry.” 

“It was the butterfly knife you got me, with the black blade and the nice handle. . . I still have the pieces, but the blade separated from the handle.”

“Well, I can see about getting it repaired.” Corviel suggested, grabbing the bottle of hydrogen peroxide left on one of the shelves over the toilet. 

“I would like that.” Ziraphon hummed, and Corviel hummed back. Ziraphon began to slide a foot up between the leg of Corviel’s pants, impatient. 

“I’m going as fast as I can,” He pointed out, amused. 

“But you’re slow as fuck.” 

“I’m not at blame for you getting sloppy.” He began to slow his work, really taking his time as he sought out every patch and soaked it in the peroxide, watching the rust color bubble up and moving to the next identified patch. 

“It’s not my fault. In a perfect world, I wouldn't ever get my clothes so dirty when having fun, and you wouldn’t have to wash it, and you could just rail me in the shower-”

“We are not having sex in the shower, dear, the last time that happened, you split your head open.” 

“Worth it.” 

“It was the stupidest thing I’ve had to go to a hospital for.” 

“It was worth it.” 

“Just be patient. It wouldn’t kill you.” 

“Unless it wou-”

“Don’t.” 

“Alright! Alright. Fine.” Ziraphon pouted and stood up. “But I’m still sad about the knife. If I could kill the guy that broke it again, would.” 

“And if I could make his life hell for you, I would. Unfortunately, you took care of him for me.” Corviel wrung the vest out one more time before setting it aside. “Your pants, love.”

“You’re always trying to get inside them,” Ziraphon sighed, trying very hard to sound put-upon. 

“Dear, you’ve been feeling me up since you got home. You’re a hypocrite.” 

“I know!” He replied, chipper as Corviel began treating the pants in a similar fashion to the vest, rinsing it first with cold water and then soaking it with peroxide. “But you’re just too sexy, I can’t not feel you up all the time.” 

“I appreciate the sentiment, but sometimes I have meetings, love. I can’t always have you in my lap.” 

“Nonsense. I like being there, no reason I shouldn’t be.” 

“I really do spoil you, you know.” Corviel knew that Ziraphon was honestly to his benefit in these situations. It was more uncommon for Ziraphon not to be all draped over him, playing with some pretty knife, fixing whoever Corviel was speaking with a lazy stare before turning his eyes to Corviel. Now, that was something worth looking at, in his opinion.

Anybody who’d ever dealt with Corviel knew that Ziraphon was to be feared. 

Corviel had a reputation. He was the most dangerous man in the city, according to some. The most powerful. The man with connections. The man with an arsenal of assets that could be called upon. And he had been, for quite some time. He had half the city’s public influencers under his thumb, had more money than one might think, and the crime world could not move against him if it tried. 

Not to brag, but he was somewhat of a criminal mastermind. 

So imagine the surprise of the people he saw often when all of a sudden, everywhere Corviel went, this short prostitute followed. Of course, they didn’t KNOW if Ziraphon was a prostitute, but they certainly DRESSED like one, and they also certainly weren’t SHY about their. . . cravings. So, the most logical conclusion was that Cold Corviel had gotten a concubine of sorts. Which was strange, because there was a rather popular rumor going on that Corviel was actually made of steel with no desires except for the acquisition of power, let alone sexual desires, which might lead him to allow this money-siphoning, gender-breaking, knife-holding person to drape over him as if he owned Corviel, or perhaps the opposite. 

In reality, Ziraphon was really lounging like a lioness might while considering where her next kill might take place. They often thought about this while lounging in the lap of Corviel, staring at the awfully dull people he met with. They were all different looking, but in all of them, it was the same greedy and fearful hearts, the same organs, the same blood that might one day be spilt on the ground below his expensive shoes. He would daydream of that gorgeous ruby color, often more satisfied with that than the hand idling near his inner thigh that Corviel would move every so often, or the boring talk of weapons or whatever it was they discussed in those meetings. So stuffy, all of them. Except Corviel, of course. At least he knew how to have fun, sometimes. 

The tap began running in the bath soon, Corviel’s signal to start hurrying up. If Ziraphon was impatient enough to actually do something for himself. . . 

He put aside the pants, scooping up the rest of Ziraphon’s clothes and putting them in a pile to put in the washing machine later before discarding his own clothes, the casual wear he’d changed into from his usual attire. Ziraphon let out a lazy whistle, and Corviel pretended to ignore it, and this was simply how these things went. Ziraphon turned the shower on, and climbed in, peaking around the curtain dramatically and batting his eyelashes at Corviel. 

“Why are you blinking so much?” Corviel frowned. 

“It’s seductive,” Ziraphon replied, blinking some more. 

“You’re just moving your eyelids.” 

“Yeah, seductively.”

“I fail to see how this is supposed to arouse me.” 

“You’re stupid.” 

“You’re immature.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“I’m the top here.” 

“Fuck me.” 

“I already said no.” 

“. . . please??” 

“No. You’re tired, anyways.” 

“I can always get coffee.” 

Corviel rolled his eyes and stepped into the bath. “Right now, you look like a walking crime scene. I love you, and you are beyond beautiful, but I refuse to make love to you while you’re coated in blood.” 

“I believe I’m at my sexiest covered in blood. You just have no taste.” 

“I believe I have plenty of taste.” Corviel argued. “After all, you are mine.” The possessive words weren’t uncommon, and Ziraphon liked them. So, ZIraphon forgave Corviel’s shenanigans and stepped into the water, turned up warmer than was probably advisable for the health of one’s skin. The water began to wipe away the red that had stuck to his skin, soaked through his clothes by the rain he’d gotten caught in on the way home. Some of it had begun to dry, but that was nothing a little soap couldn’t fix; he’d be all clean soon, as if he hadn’t committed the kind of crime that gets you locked away somewhere where you don’t see the sun, as if he hadn’t before and as if he wouldn’t do it again very soon. 

To Ziraphon, death was a fascination. It always had been. He was the kind of child that killed any manner of creatures, just to see what would happen. Worms and frogs and all sorts perished under his chubby little hands and a pair of tiny child’s scissors, or his mother’s kitchen knives when he could sneak them out when he was older. As he grew, so too did the need to see what happened. When he was no older than twelve, a boy had been picking on him, and was found with a series of deep slices on the back of his arms the next day. Ziraphon had spent the afternoon holding him still as he dragging a pocket knife over the flesh, watching the blood well up. 

It had been more beautiful than he’d been expecting, more captivating than he could account for. The boy lived, though he supposed he must still be in therapy. 

“That feels good.” Ziraphon groaned as the hot water ran down his body, hitting his shoulders with a comforting repetitiveness. Corviel smiled softly, the kind of expression that nobody thought he was capable of. 

“Good.” He answered simply, grabbing the bottle of Ziraphon’s body wash from the shelving, and busied himself warming it up. The bathroom was just a touch drafty about this time of the year, making the products shockingly cold when touched to skin, and he wanted Ziraphon to relax. They’d had a long night, after all. He was far too thoughtful when there was anything to do with Ziraphon. These days, almost every detail was planned around Ziraphon. Was Ziraphon going to be at this meeting? If so, was the venue going to be to their liking? Would the people annoy them, or entertain them? Would they be alright there? If not, he simply couldn’t go. 

“Corvi?” 

“Yes, dear?” Corviel asked, gesturing for Ziraphon to turn. Ziraphon obeyed, and almost lost his train of thought as Corviel began massaging his shoulders. 

“I love you so.” Ziraphon sighed, practically melting. Corviel’s hands spread across him, washing the red from his skin, hands bringing the weariness out of Ziraphon’s muscles. Ziraphon wasn’t sure that it was legal, how good it felt. Not that he’d ever given a flying fuck about legality. 

“Do you, now?” Corviel asked, kneading his fingers into ZIraphon’s lower back, which was tenser than it had been in a long, long time. 

“Corvi, I’ve literally murdered countless people for you, babe.” He groaned softly. “I love you very much.”

“Yes, but tonight you were just out for fun.” Corviel pointed out. 

“I made sure to get somebody really horrible this time, though.” Ziraphon whined, turning around. “And you know I can’t help it.” 

“I know.” Corviel purred, pressing a kiss to his love’s head. 

Ziraphon’s obsession with death had come with a similar fascination: blood. The color red affected Ziraphon deeply, but nothing could satisfy him truly short of the sight of blood. When it appeared, it drew Ziraphon in, made him want- no, need- to see more. It felt like the only true shade of red, the only true version of anything. His victims were so beautiful when he was done with them, his knife soaked and dripped with the object of his morbid fascination. He could stare at them for ages, all cut up, still seeping that gorgeous red color. . . of course, they only ended up like that when Ziraphon really got carried away. When he was behaving himself, he would sate himself on the sight of blood from the necessary wounds that would kill them, watching the blood come forth from their stomachs or their necks, dripping from their lips. 

It was obvious to Corviel that, tonight, Ziraphon had indulged fully. 

"You're perfect, my dear," Corviel whispered. "My sweet little songbird. Such devotion to me, such talent." He brushed a wet strand of hair behind Ziraphon's ear.

"You know it, my love." Ziraphon stared back, into the eyes of the man who he called the reaper, death incarnate, the only person he would ever truly love. Those golden eyes that asked him questions, every time he met them. Would you love me? Devote every breath, every movement? Would you kill for me? Would you die for me? Do you live by my word and my word alone? Am I the only one that matters? 

And every time, without fail, the answer was yes. Ziraphon offered his entirety Corviel, in hopes that it would be enough. And Corviel did seem to own him, to be the beginning and the end. Ziraphon liked the feeling- it was addicting, to have been handed over so thoroughly. It felt safe to him. Corviel was the only person he could trust. Corviel was death on earth. 

Corviel traced a thumb along Ziraphon's cheek, staring into the eyes that were so smitten with him. The look of complete submission in Ziraphon was something that Corviel delighted in, something he could easily stare at as long as he lived. He knew that Ziraphon was his, in every way. He knew every heartbeat was for him, every little pant of air that passed Ziraphon's gorgeous lips. Ziraphon was his songbird, but more importantly, Ziraphon was just his. 

“Of course I know it, my dear.” He answered back, kissing Ziraphon first on the forehead, then the bridge of his nose, and on a cheek, and on the corner of the mouth, not withdrawing fully as he continued, “I know this sort of thing like the sky being blue. It won’t change.” 

“I would never let it,” Ziraphon breathed softly, and Corviel kissed him properly. 

“That’s what I was looking to hear.” Corviel pulled back and began gently moving his fingers through Ziraphon’s hair, as if nothing of the sort had happened, softly breaking up knots that had formed. Ziraphon hummed. 

“Your hands are fucking magic,” He drawled. Usually when he said something in that vein it was innuendo, or sarcasm, or both. This was unironic, completely honest, pulled from him by Corviel, who seemed to know how to do all manner of things to him that he didn’t think anybody could. 

“I wouldn’t say magic, more like. . . pure technical skill.” Corviel responded, reaching around Ziraphon to gather Ziraphon’s shampoo and getting to work.

“That’s true, too.” Ziraphon hummed. He could fall asleep like this, he thought. He very well might. 

Most of the time, nights would not end quietly like this, with Corviel carefully washing his love, then washing himself. He got out of the shower first, drying himself as Ziraphon enjoyed the hot water a moment longer. He then called Ziraphon out, towels laid out, and he wrapped Ziraphon up, drying them. Ziraphon was very pliable in this state, so easy to move around and manipulate,so obedient. Corviel would say he wished Ziraphon was like that all the time, but. . . The slight resistance was alluring to Corviel. Anybody could obey, but not everyone could test Corviel and make it feel right. Actually, Corviel was willing to bet that there was only one person that could test him and get away with it like Ziraphon. 

Either way, he led Ziraphon to their bedroom, all soft words and hands that pushed only so gently as to keep them moving. If Ziraphon stopped, Corviel knew they wouldn’t keep going. 

Ziraphon crawled into their king-sized bed, barely dragging his body into his spot for his exhaustion. His hunt that night had been somewhat taxing- it was less of a business interaction that night, no time constraints to speak of. Corviel had expressed worry due to his absence for so long, but he’d been enjoying himself. He let his victim run this time, catching them to release them again in the web of backstreets near his old work because setting to his morbid passion. 

This one had more fight in him, babbling about some mussy nonsense like a wife. As if Ziraphon’s hunger for blood would bow to romance, as if the need to watch a man’s life drain from his eyes would be sated simply by a beg for mercy. Even as the man’s breaths had come drenched in death, he’d been muttering about needing to get home. Ziraphon didn’t like it when they acted like they were important. It was foolish- to him, they were prey, and the talking was simply an unfortunate consequence. Looking back on it, he entertained the thought of cutting the man’s tongue clean in half, or slicing into his cheeks, making the speech impossible. He almost wished he’d seen the aftermath of that, but he couldn’t dwell on possibilities. His work that night had been beautiful, regardless of its unfortunate convictions. 

Either way, the idiot had tried to fight him. He’d been dutifully working on the man’s arms, in a state of pure zen and transfixation, and the man had managed to get up and pin Ziraphon, still bleeding all over him. He’d seemed half dead, and Ziraphon had realized with a dull sense of astonishment that it must’ve been adrenaline. He’d been forced to drive his knife into the man’s stomach- at risk to the blade! He’d been using an 11 inch italian stiletto, a slashing weapon, not a stabbing weapon, and he’d already lost his butterfly knife, which had been pissing him off all night- and twist, making the man cry out in strangled pain and collapse on top of him. He’d been able to shrug the man off, back to the ground as he pulled out the knife, delighting in the blood that began exiting the wound, despite the fact that it would ruin his usual plans in that area. Maybe he should stab more often, he thought. 

“Now, sit still, it’s much easier if you just let me work,” He remembered saying as he sat himself back on the man’s lap to continue carving lines into the man’s skin. “Then I won’t break another knife on a nobody like you. . . don’t worry, though, I’ll make you beautiful.” 

“Comfortable?” Asked Corviel, in the present. He got a vague noise back, which he took for a yes. Ziraphon began slowly taking off the towels, and Corviel sighed. “Would you like me to fetch you nightclothes, my love?” Another vague noise. “Words, dear, I’ve heard you use them. You’ve begged me for more embarrassing things.” 

“Please,” Ziraphon finally managed, turning his face so his cheek was mushed against the soft blankets piled on the bed. Corviel smiled and turned to the dresser as his love expended so much effort into rolling over, now free of the fluffy towels and facing the ceiling. 

“Which shirt do you want?” He asked. He would only really bother with giving Ziraphon a shirt, since they would probably whine about being given underwear or shorts to wear. 

“One of yours.” Ziraphon decided, smiling softly. Silence ensued. “. . . Please, love?”

“. . . Fine.” Corviel grabbed one of his few nightshirts, old and comfortable and heavily worn from sleeping in them over the years. With a second though, he grabbed one for himself. Ziraphon was likely to cling to him, which meant he wouldn’t be moving until morning. He changed, himself. His pants were comfortable enough to sleep in, so that was left, he simply changed shirts before tossing Ziraphon’s shirt to him, which landed in a heap on their face. 

“Thank you.” Ziraphon rasped, slowly figuring out the impossible puzzle that was the t shirt. He he figured it out, he didn’t wind up really pulling it down, only wiggling in it enough to say he was technically in it. 

Corviel took the towels from under Ziraphon and they whined, not taking kindly to being moved. They whined louder when Corviel went to hang the towels to dry, which Corviel only returned with a soft chuckle. When he walked back into the bedroom, he decided to walk around, organizing things in favor of paying attention to the quiet obviously needy Ziraphon laying in bed. They tried subtly at first to catch his attention, shifting around, then less subtly, making grabby hands, until they were fed up. 

“Cooooriveeeeel!!” They whined, and Corviel finally turned to them. “. . . Love me.” 

“I do love you. Every second of every day.” Corviel then turned away, prompting an angry noise. “What?” 

“Please!” 

“Please what, my love?” 

“Cuddles!” 

“Ohhh, okay.” Corviel finally walked over to the bed, and laid down. Ziraphon obviously didn’t feel like moving, so Corviel snaked his arms around them, bringing them in close, holding them, protecting them. 

“Mmmmm, thank you.” Ziraphon, for their part, wiggled into Corviel’s arms as best as they could. 

“Of course, love.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you're enjoying it so far, it's a really fun fic to write.


End file.
